


Variations on a Theme

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (from Gibson's POV tho!), Botanical Metaphors, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Goodsir takes his role as Healer perhaps Too Seriously, Heavy Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Regret, Tenderness, Unresolved Romantic Tension, its about THE FACE TOUCHING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: Let us take two men, slice their lives into constituent moments, and place perhaps two of these fragments under a microscope.And let us, in the name of science, shine a light and examine the phenomena of comfort both given and withheld.The specimens are dead now, but observe these echoes. There is beauty even here.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/William Gibson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Terror Bingo, The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Variations on a Theme

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Terror Rarepair Week 2021
> 
> I started thinking about if Fitzjames and Gibson die in the same time frame Gibson must have started seeing symptoms around the same time as well. This takes place between episodes 5 and 6.
> 
> "Broken Tulips" were highly favored during the Tulip Mania of the early 19th century, however their unique coloration occurs due to infection from a virus that eventually kills them. I thought it a terribly tragic idea to prize that which is doomed and so this fic came from that.

The sickbay is quiet as a tomb. The few in-house patients are lost in dreams, better planes of existence painted by their subconscious: glittering palaces, alien vistas, or vague amalgamations of an old life, anything is an escape. There are the few whose sleep was induced by Goodsir himself, who took his soporific concoctions with sighing relief, so concerned with their own pain they could not spare a thought for their mortal Morpheus. Goodsir wishes he were off with Silna for he knows conversation, and closeness with another, would alleviate the insistent anxious energy that courses through him. He paces, checks the medicine labels, sorts and organizes surgical implements, but the creaking of timbers and howling of wind still penetrate, laughing in wicked jest at his despondency. He cannot imagine Silna enjoys Lt. Hodgson’s abundance of words, a great many she does not understand yet nor ever will need to. When watch changes and Goodsir is still on duty he wonders if he could lure Hodgson to the sickbay if only to have something to listen to.

He is granted respite by the appearance of a man he has not had occasion to meet properly, but has seen slinking about, administering oil to lamps with aloof single-mindedness and bowed head.

“Is Dr. McDonald here?”

“I’m afraid not.”  _ With the Captain _ , Goodsir adds, internally. He has not pressed Dr. McDonald on the nature of the Captain’s illness, but it keeps Terror’s assistant physician quite occupied such that Dr. McDonald was enthusiastically grateful when Goodsir arrived and offered his services. “May I help you instead, Mr-?”

“Gibson.”

These days all the men are bundled tight to protect against the brutal cold that slavers at the ship’s borders desperate to deprive them of limb or life. So clothed, they scurry about the dim ship like monks in a solitary, forgotten abbey, except here there are no gardens to liven the spirit nor books to soothe the soul, no matter how Goodsir longs for either. He did his best on Erebus, but in the void of winter all his cultivated flora withered and, although John Bridgens had lent him many, he grew weary of the books available. Certainly, neither of those pleasures are present on Terror. There are at least prayers aplenty with Lt. Irving haunting the halls, a quivering specter of fear he is, and his voice falters and stumbles as he works, but the words are still those of wonder, light, salvation.

Goodsir is not a pious man, although he is dutiful in his attendance to sermons, he knows that to most of these men he is the closest thing to God. They come to him ailing just as much from fright and misery as any physical problem; against his will he is burdened with the terrible responsibility of Hope. Goodsir will give as many soothing words as he can compose, but with each repetition the assurances are progressive in their inadequacy, his tongue transformed into a feeble thing. At night he reassembles his resolve from scraps and each day it appears more grotesque and foreign so that he marvels at how any of the men can be comforted by him. When he cannot wash the doubt from their eyes: that is a failure.

His new patient is not one of those men who wear their emotions writ clear. Gibson’s eyes are determined and pale as a pond: reflective, rippling, hiding many things beneath the surface. His tight grey scarf nearly succeeds in covering his grimace as he sits, but Goodsir is attuned towards the tics that tell of pain, especially now.

“You have an injury? Or an ache?”

Gibson rolls up his sleeve, exposes a bruise mottled across his arm like spilled ink, a stain that appears almost amorphous and pulsating in the flickering lamplight, like something desperately alive, a parasite that will engulf and destroy its host.

“Where did you get that?” Goodsir asks as he brings Gibson’s arm closer for inspection.

“Fell out of a tree when I was nine. This isn’t a new bruise. We both know what this is, Doctor, I did not come here for a diagnosis. I came here for advice.”

Goodsir cannot help the indication of surprise in his voice; Gibson is younger than he and while, with his position, he surely would have a few voyages under his belt, Goodsir would not have expected any to have been dire enough for this. “If you’re familiar with the onset of scurvy, you’ll know there’s little I can offer you for cure at this point. If you are in pain, a tonic, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. I like to stay sharp.”

“I apologize I cannot help further. I hope you will not let this cause you fear. There is much time left on this voyage.”

Goodsir has not removed his hands from cradling GIbson’s arm. He tucks his thumb into the tender flesh, massaging gently, caressing even.

“Mr. Gibson, I hope you don’t mind my inquiry, but if you were aware of the cause of your condition and require no medication, what did you expect we could offer you?” Goodsir hopes it does not come out as peevish, for he means it with genuine interest. “What could _ I  _ offer you?”

Gibson’s gaze wavers. He is unfocused now in the way one becomes when one is contemplative, turned inward thoroughly enough to forget one’s surroundings. “I suppose I just wanted someone to know,” he eventually says. Gibson chews the inside of his cheek, frowns, evidently unsatisfied with his own answer.

“Have most of your friends gone to Erebus then? It must be lonely for you now. Companionship cannot be underestimated as a balm for the ills of our situation. I am lucky in that regard to have Dr. McDonald.”

“I have other means of occupying my time,” Gibson says. “My duties are broader now and I have personal projects as well.”

“Creative pursuits, very good, I do strongly recommend them.” Goodsir removes himself to perch against the table, looking down on the seated Gibson, for it is clear they have transgressed past the medical evaluation. “What do you make?”

Gibson fishes into his pocket and removes a set of handkerchiefs, spreads them out on his thighs for Goodsir’s view. The designs are of strikingly vibrant bouquets, flowers of egg yolk yellow, streaked with crimson stripes. The blossoms unfurl like bursting flames.

“Broken tulips?”

Gibson nods. “My mother took me to a botanical garden once. I thought them unique.”

“They are certainly beautiful.” Goodsir runs a line along the embroidery and lets his fingertips graze the edges of the other man’s. He imagines Gibson hunched over in his berth, painstakingly pulling at thread. Gibson would savor the act in its methodical design and wrap himself in the tender memory of that outing where flowers had enchanted. Gibson might even smile then. His happiness would be a private affair, the kind that would be tainted by the viewing, but all the same Goodsir wonders what it would look like.

He continues: “Some say it is a pity they are so fragile. After only a few generations broken tulips degrade, waste away, and after a time they can no longer propagate. So their beauty ends.”

Gibson’s mouth hardens into a firm line. “Perhaps it is better I did not finish this then.”

“As a man of medicine I walk in hand with the desire to alleviate suffering, but your fabric flowers are not suffering. They are luckier than any real broken tulip. They are caught in a glorious moment right before imminent death. If only we could all be so lucky.”

“I know I will not be. However I die, I cannot imagine it will be peaceful.”

If it were a year ago Goodsir would be adamant against this line of thought, tell Gibson in no uncertain terms he should have faith in their captains to bring them to safety, but so much has happened in the past year.

If Gibson is to die, although he hopes against it, Goodsir promises to himself he will make sure it is peaceful. At least by his occupation as a steward he is in less danger of expiring on the end of Tuunbaq claw. Gibson will go about his duties and one fateful day he will collapse and come to Goodsir’s care. Not now, not next month, but if things progress and they find no more vitamin sources, at least by the summer. Goodsir will be there to hold him and there is plenty of wine of coca left in the stores for when Gibson is too weak to hold his pride aloft.

Goodsir has thought of all their deaths. His experiments with Jacko have brought upon him the morbid habit of it. What will Gibson look like in death? Even now he has the air of a saint about him: carries inscrutable weariness around the eyes and is blessed with a numinous brow. Goodsir believes his hair would look well in a halo; made for an altar he is. Goodsir reaches a hand, cups the side of Gibson’s face so his fingers sink into man’s curls, a gesture meant to ground and comfort. Gibson gasps at the touch, Goodsir does not pull away, for it is to be expected. He feels a deep, unalloyed sorrow for this man. When was the last time Gibson had been touched? If he cannot grant him a gift from their dwindling apothecary at least he can grant him this. He rubs his thumb across Gibson’s severe cheekbones. The skin is so thin there it is as if the bone presses back eagerly and their prominence is not a trick of genetics, but a gift, crafted for his sole admiration.

“I believe you will be able to deliver your present to whoever you were making it for. I’m sure they will still appreciate it despite the subject matter. I can tell they are someone quite special to you.”

“They were. Are. Were.”

“Ah.” Goodsir knows he has never been adept at these types of conversations. He is too eager to solve problems, makes suppositions or inferences or rash comments and more times than not ends up with his foot in his mouth. Better to talk with more action. He stretches out with his other hand and grasps at Gibson’s hand, intertwines their fingers, another anchor point. It occurs to Goodsir that if they were man and woman, this might be the point at which they would kiss. Gibson looks like he would terribly like to be kissed, lips parted in wonder at Goodsir’s current boldness, but Goodsir will not abide by these signals, no matter how clear. Man and man, doctor and patient, these are boundaries they cannot cross for all the Goodsir spends moments aching for it. He does not desire Gibson in the basest conjugal sense, but to bring comfort through the last means he has at his disposal, with his body? That he desires most ardently. Now, where Gibson sits below him, pliant under his touch, it would be so easy to bend down and gather him up fully into his arms. To make him feel safe.

Gibson stutters out a breath. “If - when this progresses. This illness. Will you be honest with me?”

“I promise I will keep no secrets from you.”

“Thank you. I will come back when it is the worst of it. When it is beyond my understanding.”

“And I will care for you.”

* * *

“For what should I prepare?”

“To die, Mr. Gibson. For all your joints will soon feel as if they are full of glass. Elbows. Neck. Knuckles. The little joints in your toes. Oh, and your hips I suspect that will stop you from sleeping from the moment it begins. ”

“Hm.”

They both know what this is: a hollow echo of that moment on Terror, months ago, a lifetime ago. Goodsir had promised to keep no secrets and he does not shirk from it. The Doctor does not sadistically relish his own words, but relief is etched across his worn visage. To speak in direct terms, to unleash the ugliness of truth, and purge oneself of the taint of secrecy must be a heavy desire. They all know they are dying, but they do not speak of it. Yet, Gibson thinks, here in this desolate land, their bodies stinking and coming apart at the seams, he and Goodsir are as good as equals. He would not have Goodsir hold back.

_ I suppose I just wanted someone to know _ . Silent confession sits on his tongue, mixes with the blood from his bleeding gums, his palate poisoned. He does not speak the words, but in their untameble potency their intent escapes and inaudibly hangs in the air between them such that Gibson is certain Goodsir can sense his sentiment. Except here Goodsir refuses to console or caress him. The grip on his jaw mere seconds before had been hard and clinical, and as Goodsir delivered the doomed pronouncement he had retracted into the back of the tent, fixed him with a wary gaze. Gibson sees the man who promised to be there in his last has refused him. He regrets dearly that it should come to this.

He wishes Goodsir might hold him. Knows the Doctor’s once legendary proclivity towards providing comfort, but in the tone of Goodsir’s prediction of his suffering he knows he has lost the privilege. Aligning himself with Hickey, the man who killed innocents, the man who kidnapped Goodsir and deprived the anguished sick of their doctor, he had set himself at odds with the moral humanity Goodsir embodies. He would not be granted solace or absolution.

“I wouldn’t comfort us either, Doctor.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re-”

When the knife enters his back he is resigned. Somehow, he had known Hickey would be his end from the moment he had accepted the ring. As his vision splinters and his thoughts spiral with blood loss what pierces through his fading consciousness is the sudden agony on Goodsir’s face: held so stoic and composed before, now shattered by concern and love for a fellow human being. For him.

He hates that he has caused this; he does not want to be a burden. Finally, Gibson comprehends the compulsive need that drove Goodsir to his profession. He feels more akin to him than ever.  _ Do No Harm. _ Gibson has failed this basic tenet. One not just for doctors, but for the Good. Yet, he loves that he has caused this. Goodsir who had been downtrodden by the terror and atrocity around him, the light of his Goodness brought again to surface, his gasping for breath just for him, his palm tender on Gibson’s cheek again. In his terminal fugue, Gibson’s last hope is that in Goodsir’s memory he will be beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> like the Discovery Service i am charting new ground here which is always nerve-wracking. thank you for coming on this journey, I hope you found something interesting in this fic! I just couldn't believe the fandom had no analysis or extrapolation on their relationship when That Scene was So Loaded. I wanted MORE so i just had to do it. hope it's okay!
> 
> Comments and kudos always greatly appreciated!!!
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines) or [Tumblr.](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com)


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